Cain
by SunderEarth
Summary: He said, "I have no heart" But the heart was present in his eyes. In the way he moves. In the way his eyes widen in sympathy from seeing a person harmed, the way he slept with his body curled up, covering the most vulnerable organs, protecting himself from what he considered his "deserved" harm. He regarded himself as the first murderer of all. Cain.


We called him Cain, but we didn't know why. Sure, we knew the Fantasy Bible, and how easily spread it was- and how much influence it had in the environment called the Fantasy-now. It still didn't explain why we started calling him Cain. The two stories were the least interwoven I'd ever heard. It's hard to imagine him as a Cain, hard, immovable, prone to acts of aggressive violence. He told us later, he told us why. He said he didn't understand it himself. He was the one who murdered his parents- you can see it in the regret and vulnerability in his eyes- I have no heart, he said. I killed my parents, it was by my hand, he said. He seemed like he long ago ceased crying over it. All he felt was repentance. Cold, immovable, a thing unable to be fixed by rehab, a terrible, terrible repentance for the past. He told me, he said, "I have no heart"- but the heart was present in his eyes. In the way he moves. In the way his eyes widen in sympathy from seeing a person harmed, the way he slept with his body curled up, covering the most vulnerable organs, protecting himself from what he considered his "deserved" harm. He regarded himself as the first murderer of all. The first sin committed by man. His obsession carried so readily over into his heart, into his soul, the asymmetry of his smiles. You could see his heart in his eyes. You always could. His eyes may have been that same, demon, teifling-yellow, but to me, they were of a friendly sort. The kind of yellow that the sunset brings. He said "I have no heart" he said "I killed my parents", but that was all his own ego bringing him down, you know. That lack of self-esteem brought him down, never allowed him reprieve from his own, personal, hell he thought he owned. He cried to himself, those days, out of shame, out of demonic punishment, I don't know. All I know is that he cried, and he whimpered as if the tears stung his face like acid. He would get up early, those tormented days, with his eyes reddened and puffy, with his face streaked in uneven red-white. The red and yellow was a terrible combination, honestly, but who am I to say so? He looks so much prettier when he's not sad. Those tormented days he would hide off, of which I would follow him, I was the rogue in our party, after all, and I would see him rip his hood off, then gently pat it, as if he had hurt it, then he would tug up his hair until it revealed a red bump of what looked like bone, he would grab them, each one matching on each side, and rip his fingers -and his nails, made of a hard, demonically sharp material- into the skin there, as if trying to tear them out. He would reach down with his neck, and pull his shirt into his mouth, so he could resist the wound, so he could bite down on the cloth and whimper and cry in pain, pain caused by the terrible ripping- it was obvious to anyone, by anyone which I mean me, that this was connected to Cain.

Having us call him that- that demonic, crying tone, Cain- I felt, was a part of his repentance too. He never allowed himself peace. He made sure every breath he took was in a reminder that he was the First Murderer, the Original Sin, that he only deserved the worst.

Some days were better than others. Some days he allowed me to touch his face, loop my arm around his back, and bring him into an embrace. Some days I could see those teifling-yellow eyes sparkle with honest curiosity in the presence of some previously unseen backdrop, some beautiful, wild, skyline. I could see that he loved those moments most of all. He would reach out, towards that unassuming black skyline, and twist his palm inward. He would slant his eyes and focus- he had a very intense, intense personality- on grabbing the sun there, when it set, and releasing it when he felt fit. It showed me that he felt he finally had control over himself, and of the environment surrounding him. I felt the whole thing as a symbol that things were going to get better.

But they never did. Day turned to night and ruined, as it always, always does, those small bits of happy peace I found in our journeys together.


End file.
